Trying to Spell
by Self-san
Summary: You can spell idiocracy without idiot. "Joan Watson, meet Sherlock Holmes." "Pleasure."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything.

**Warnings**: Genderswap.

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Yawning languidly, Joan stretched her arms over her head.

With a satisfying pop and a slight twinge of her scarred shoulder, she scratched at her stomach and padded barefoot out of the bedroom, leaving behind warm sheets and any thoughts of coming back.

In the quiet of the night, she could hear the sporadic plucking of a violin and shook her head in fond annoyance. He was at it again.

She contemplated grabbing her guitar and joining him. She was aware that she'd be granted no sleep now, not when he was in this kind of mood.

The hallway of their apartment was dark, as was the kitchen. Joan walked knowingly through the shadows to grab a cup of water, strictly ignoring the table with its towers of case files and mishmash experiments.

Draining her cup with the enthusiasm of a dehydrated child, Joan set the cup down and willfully stomped the small distance towards the living room. Sherlock hated it if she made no noise, as she was so accustomed to doing.

The plucking of the violin stopped.

Joan stood in the doorway and peered into the sparsely lit room, her eyes slow to adjust to even the smallest of illumination. She blinked away tears and yawned again, her arms folding under her breasts as she gazed at the man sprawled on the couch.

His long legs hung lifelessly off of the side and a violin was hugged comfortably to his lean torso. His eyes stared balefully at the painted ceiling and his fingers moved in erratic patterns over the smooth wood of his instrument.

Joan spared a wry smiled at the picture he made, uncaringly lounging about in his pressed slacks and dress shirt.

The small flames of the candles atop the mantle made dancing shadows and she, in well practiced moves, stepped over the creaky boards lining the floor to where he lay.

Large rings of blue-black smeared under his eyes and the slanted sides his sharp nose. His mouth lay in a harsh, unforgiving line as he firmly kept his eyes to the ceiling.

Joan leaned over the couch and gently lay her hand over his where it skittered on the violin. He jerked and his bright eyes met hers in shocked inquiry. She smiled softly and slowly took the instrument out of his hands, carefully setting it on the footstool of the nearby chair. Turning back to him, she found him sitting up and looking at her questioningly.

Joan smiled as she urged him back down and slid between his slim legs. She was just tall enough to lay her head on his chest and she did so, comfortably positioning it so that none of the buttons would press into her face. He lay still beneath her and she closed her eyes, sleep the farthest thing from her mind.

He needed to talk, and she would listen and respond, but she could be comfortable when she did it.

Joan heard the steady beat of his heart as it pumped between his ribs and silently loved the way that his lean chest rose and fell under her cheek. Her arms curled around the sides of his stomach but stopped short of actually hugging him.

Sherlock's hand came up to her back and he picked back up the rhythm that she had denied him with his instrument. It comforted her in the odd way that he himself did; his fingers cool on her warm flesh.

She certainly had an odd husband.

Joan smiled at the thought.

Sherlock sighed loudly and brought his other hand up to tangle in her short hair. His limber fingers tugged and untangled customary knots as he worked. She endured it with long won grace. For such a brilliant man, he certainly had his peculiarities when it came to her.

They were without a case, and without work, well, Sherlock…wasn't himself. Not really anyway. She could deal with it, certainly, but that didn't mean that she didn't long for the other part of him; the part that tore into mysteries with sharp teeth and a mind like a steel trap. Joan rubbed her hands on the smooth leather of the couch and wondered when another atrocity would be committed so that Sherlock Holmes might live again.

Joan was a doctor, and she couldn't, with sound mind and body, ignore the way that they worked, her and her husband.

Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

He would fight, he would deduct, and he would do anything to conquer.

And she, she would be there. She would mediate, she would reason, and she would be the one to patch him up when he failed.

Joan knew this, like she knew the back of her hand.

It would always be this way. It would always be the same. She would always be beside him. She would forever be Watson to his Holmes.

Snuggled there, with him, in the quiet of their flat and thoughts, she wondered at the fact that it didn't bother her at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. That's all Sir Arthur Con Doyle.

**Warnings**: Features girl!Watson and mentions of being sick.

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Joan felt her stomach twist and she hauled herself up to lean over the toilet again as acid burned her ragged throat and her guts pushed themselves up.

Once it was over, she gagged and dry heaved as she clutched the toilet bowl.

She breathed through her mouth shallowly as she flushed and lay herself back down on the large towel. She had left work early, feeling rather poor, and had ended up having to stop in an alley and puke.

She had barely made it home before she had needed to run to the kitchen and relieve her stomach again. From there, it was shallow breathing, slow movements, and slight sips of water as she stripped of her clothing and holed up in the bathroom. The phone sat beside her terrycloth palate and she rubbed at her eyes tiredly and thanked God that no one had called, especially-

_Da-da-dadada-da-da-da-da! _

Joan groaned audibly and scrubbed at her clammy face. She had thought too soon.

Joan reached for her cell phone and gingerly opened it and held it to her ear.

"Joan! There you are! I'll be there in twenty, meet me at the door?" Sherlock's voice rang loud and clear over the line, and Joan tiredly closed her eyes. She was in no shape to be out running after criminals.

"Er-" Joan fumbled, and dejectedly resigned herself to tell the truth.

"I, actually, I'm at home right now." Joan cleared her throat and winced at the roughness of the action, stung.

"You're sick," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, I took off work and-" Joan stopped and in her haste to get back to the porcelain god, dropped the phone.

She heaved and painfully moaned as she flushed and laid her head against the cool toilet. She forgot all about the phone until her foggy ears picked up on shout emitting from the rejected device.

"-atson! Watson, pick up the phone! Watson? Can you hear me? Are you alright? Pick up, dammit!"

Joan scrambled for the phone and held it back to her ear quickly.

"I'm here!" she cut in.

Surely he had heard her being sick.

"I'm on my way!"

"What? Right."

But he had already hung up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**Warnings**: girl!Watson.

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Joan wasn't afraid of blood.

Truth be told, Joan currently felt nothing for the hot, life-giving liquid that spilled through her fingers as she clutched the wound splitting her shoulder.

She had already field bandaged her leg. And thankfully, the bullet had missed her knee.

Her gun sat beside her, the true owner dead in the dusty Afghani street.

Joan was a doctor, and she shouldn't have been there, but Watson knew that life was a bitch like that sometimes.

Sucking in shallow breaths, she pressed her heels into the ground and grit her teeth. The shooting pain of her shoulder was getting to her. Her leg hurt too, but she could ignore that. The bullet had gone straight through. The one in her shoulder had caught bone.

Joan breathed like a drowning man as she snatched her ready roll of bandages and alcohol. Uncapping the bottle, she craned her head as best she could to watch as the burning hellfire pored into her wound. She bit her lip bloody, tears fogging her eyes until she was sure that her shoulder was as clean as could be. She tore at the bandage wrappings with her teeth, the cellophane crinkling as she worked on getting them out.

She shuddered and began wrapping.

She would get out of here. She would live, dammit!

Once done, she moved her bloody shirt back over her shoulder and strapped back on her combat vest. The helmet came next, her hands beginning to tremble with delayed shock. Joan ignored it, grabbing her gun and clicking off the safety.

The city was dark around her and Joan prayed that she wouldn't be seen.

That night, Joan passed four guard patrols unnoticed and unseen. She made it back behind friendly lines, where her wounds were treated.

Her shoulder and leg got infected, and she lost partial use of both. She was shipped back home, having completed her tour.

Then, life _really_ got interesting with the introduction of one Sherlock Holmes into her life.


End file.
